


The Luxury of Choice

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Fly with the Gold (2012), Poseidon (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bath Houses, Boot Worship, Crossdressing, Crossover, Finger Sucking, M/M, Shaving, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eunchul is sent on a mission to Japan. Momo is his go-between. Never mix business with pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Luxury of Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle Prompt Stack.

There are worse places to meet a killer.

Steam rises from the water of the pool, twists and flickers as it lifts higher into the dome of the bath house. Eunchul watches it. Like gun smoke, he thinks, but less substantial. There’s no accompanying smell of cordite or blood. Instead there’s simply a relaxing nothingness. No fragrant oils in the water. No incense pumped through the air. Just a purity of light shining through the thick glass windows set high in the dome, filtering through the steam.

He moves, sending ripples chasing across the surface of the water. No clock on the wall—clients don’t come here to be reminded of real time, real life—but Eunchul is aware of the time all the same.

His contact is late.

Under other circumstances, it’d be a pleasure to lie here in a warm bath, idle and indulgent. This is what his colleagues in the SSAT think he’s doing with his vacation. He’d told them the truth, that he was going to Kyoto. Sunwoo, never blessed with too much imagination, made sly jokes about geisha, while Minjung allowed her tough exterior to crack a little when she’d asked him to go to a shrine on her behalf and buy some good luck charms.

He’d acquired the charms two days ago when he’d first arrived. Since then he’s been wandering the city like a tourist, visiting the palace and the shrines, joining a walking tour of the old districts, drinking beer and eating out, making only the most superficial contact with the people around him. All the while, he’s been waiting. Watching. Making absolutely sure that no one had followed him.

His father’s business is too important to be left to underlings. Choi Huigon had made that clear. Eunchul is here to oversee a certain transaction. To determine whether the head of the Aizuyajiri-kai yakuza is an ally worthy of the Black Snake triad; whether this deal is a one-off or the preliminary offering for greater trade opportunities.

“You’ll be introduced to Mr Asada by a go-between,” Choi Huigon had said. “Momo is a trusted source. A loyal soldier.”

Eunchul had nodded. He’d been raised to understand loyalty, but trust was a fluid concept. “Where will we meet?”

His father had shown him a piece of paper with an email address and a location written upon it. Moments later, Huigon touched the flame of his lighter to the paper and dropped it into the crystal ashtray, where it had shrivelled into ash.

Yesterday Eunchul had made contact, sending an email to confirm this meeting. Now Momo is late. Twenty minutes late.

In their line of work, twenty minutes is a lifetime.

The bath house is silent, save for the drips of condensation that fall from the roof to plink upon the tiled floor. The sound is musical, as calming as the steam, but Eunchul’s tension grows with every passing moment. He wipes a hand over his face and edges up out of the water, letting the cooler air hit his body. He scans the room, listing from memory all the ways in and out of the building.

He’s sitting on the partially submerged steps that lead down into the pool. A couple of towels lie casually discarded on the side of the bath, his gun hidden beneath the soft white cotton. The bath house fulfils all the correct protocols of city planning, with a fire door for customer safety, but Eunchul knows that door leads nowhere. The only way in or out is across the threshold right in front of him.

The steam swirls in answer to an exhalation elsewhere in the building. Eunchul sits up straight and rests his arms across his knees, his hands just clear of the water. His muscles bunch. His attention locks on the doorway. Steam billows, ghosts across the water, then it clears as the door opens and a young man enters the room.

His beauty is not unexpected—this is a bath house, after all, and the clients pay for beauty—but his attitude is a different matter. As he steps over the threshold, it’s as if a change goes through him. Before, he was round-shouldered, head lowered, black hair hanging in a heavy swoop over the right side of his face; a boy who didn’t want to draw notice. Now, though—now is a different matter. Now he tosses back his hair, raking a hand through it so it tumbles, framing a face of extraordinary strength and delicacy.

Wide dark eyes lit with knowledge of his own worth. A long nose that should throw the rest of his features out of kilter, but only serves to accentuate them. A mouth pressed into a line, hinting at how generous it might be if coaxed into laughter. A determined chin, lifted in haughty self-assurance.

The rest of him is swathed in an over-large bathrobe with the sleeves rolled up, but judging by his wrists and ankles, the young man is possessed of a slender body. Although perhaps not that slender, Eunchul amends as he studies the curve of the trapezius muscles revealed by the open collar of the robe. The idea that this beautiful young man has a certain kind of strength is rather stimulating.

The young man looks at him. “Kang Eunchul.” Not a question. A statement.

“Yes.”

A brief smile flirts with the young man’s mouth. “I’m Momo.”

_Momo is a man_. Eunchul frowns. Why is he surprised? Perhaps because he’d assumed that anyone who went by the name Peach would be a woman. What was it they said about making assumptions...?

If he’s honest, he’s relieved his contact is a man. Not because he thinks a woman incapable of this kind of work—his colleague Minjung is tougher than some of the male recruits and is always pushing for more undercover work—but because he’s old-fashioned enough to prefer women out of harm’s way. No doubt his father’s beliefs have rubbed off on him; Choi Huigon only adopts boys into his organisation.

“You’re late.” Eunchul speaks in Japanese.

Momo saunters around the outside edge of the pool. The front of the bathrobe flips open with each step, flashing glimpses of long, pale thighs. “Class ran over.” No apology is offered.

“Class?” Eunchul tamps down a spurt of anger. He’s at a disadvantage, yes, but getting angry won’t do him any favours. He needs to keep a cool head, assess the situation, assign a threat level, and deal with it accordingly—because whatever his father said about Momo being trustworthy, Eunchul isn’t ready to buy it just yet.

“I’m a student.” Momo stops at the opposite side of the pool close to the steps. His hands toy with the belt of the robe. His hair is already starting to curl in the steam. “Doing my Master’s.”

“What subject?”

Dark brows lift. “Does it matter?”

It doesn’t, but it annoys Eunchul that the answer isn’t forthcoming. To hell with this; he needs to take control. Momo is the go-between, nothing more. Unimportant in the wider scheme of things.

He shifts in the water, turning to face the young man. Traces his gaze over bare feet and trim ankles and smooth shins. The bathrobe obscures the rest of his view, so he looks at Momo’s face. “Are you armed?”

Another of those almost-smiles. “No,” he says, and as if to prove it, he tugs at the belt and shrugs out of the robe. He makes no move to catch it or tease with it. Just lets it drop to the floor, the heavy towelling making a soft thud as it hits the tiles.

Unarmed, Momo stands there, naked. Long legs, restless fingers. His body is lightly muscled, pecs and abs delineated but not overtly so. His chest is smooth. He has little pink nipples, beaded tight from the atmosphere and, perhaps, from Eunchul’s scrutiny. A trail of dark fluff leads from his navel down to his groin. His pubic hair is dark, glossy, trimmed. His balls hang low, his dick as slender as the rest of him.

Eunchul tries to remain indifferent, but his cock has other ideas. His erection perks up, not quite breaking the surface but pretty damn obvious all the same.

Momo laughs. It has steel in it, not amusement. He bends to pick up the robe, then with practised gestures folds it and carries it across to one of the slatted wooden loungers that occupy the free space at the head of the pool.

Even though he’d checked them all earlier for hidden weapons, Eunchul can’t help himself. The way Momo is leaning over, fussily straightening the squared pile of the robe, draws attention to the length of his legs and the curve of his spine, and when he bends over a little more, feet planted wide apart, buttocks flexing, Eunchul can see the crack of his arse and the pendulous swing of his sac. He can imagine that smooth patch of skin between bollocks and asshole, can imagine burying his face between Momo’s thighs and licking him right _there_ , making him moan and beg, and then who’d be the smug bastard?

Fuck it, Momo is getting under his skin. Nothing, no one, gets under Eunchul’s skin. He’s impervious. He follows orders. Does what’s necessary.

He reaches beneath the towel on the poolside and picks up his gun. The weight is familiar in his hands, the grip moulded to his fingers. He leaves the safety on for now, adjusting his position on the submerged steps to aim the muzzle at Momo.

“Turn around.” The command raps out louder than he intended, the words echoing in the bath house dome. “Slowly,” he adds, softer. Huskier.

Water drips from the roof. Steam mists his vision. He has to blink, sweat stinging his eyes. He tastes it on his lips, salt-sweet.

Momo turns. His body gleams with a light sheen of moisture. He looks like an athlete from ancient times, hip cocked, arms uplifted, but instead of holding an apple or victory wreath, he’s holding a straight razor.

Eunchul expels a breath. How the fuck had he missed that?

A click as he thumbs off the safety. His gun is a Heckler & Koch Mk 23 rather than the standard-issue K5 he’d left in his locker at work. The Heckler & Koch only has twelve rounds rather than the fourteen the K5 can pack, but it’s faster, more accurate, and above all, waterproof.

When he speaks, his voice is calm. “A razor, really? You planning on slitting my throat?” 

“No.” Arms still up, the folded razor glinting, Momo comes towards him. Either he has a death wish or he’s supremely confident that Eunchul won’t shoot. Hard not to admire a man like that. Admire him and be exasperated by him in equal measure.

Momo steps down into the water a few feet away from Eunchul’s position. The young man’s dick is plumping, thickening; he’s aroused by having a gun pointed at him.

Eunchul sure as hell isn’t going to judge. Not when he’s getting turned on by watching Momo get hot.

Remembering they were having some semblance of conversation a few seconds ago, Eunchul drags his mind back to it. “If you’re not gonna kill me, why the need for the razor?”

A smile—a proper one, full of wicked heat—turns this aloof creature into something much more wanton. Momo flicks open the blade and touches it lightly to his lips as if in a kiss. “I was hoping you’d shave me.”

Lust poleaxes Eunchul. Now his cock breaks the surface. His whole body is taut, ready to do violence, and Momo is offering him the chance to lay hands on him in a wholly different way. “You...” His brain scrambles; he has to regain control. “You want...”

Water sloshes around Momo’s legs as he comes closer. Ankles, shins; froth and ripples as he descends the tiled steps. “We’re meeting with Mr Asada this evening, and I don’t want to appear uncouth.”

Smooth legs and chest, surely waxed. Dark hair at armpits and groin, and that intriguing wild fluff of treasure-trail. Cock half-hard and rising all the time. An enigmatic smile. “I don’t want to shame you, Eunchul. We’re going as a couple, after all.”

The words penetrate. Eunchul pulls himself together. “Yes. Yes, we are.” Like hell will he admit that he’d proposed the subterfuge when he’d thought his contact was a woman, but Momo’s amused expression suggests he already knows.

Momo nods towards the gun. “Your father trusts me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I don’t know your father, either.” The arch of an eyebrow, challenging. “Take the razor. Go on. I’ll be a good boy. I’ll put my hands behind my back.”

Desire is the least trustworthy bedmate he knows, but it’s hard to resist a bad boy playing good. Eunchul considers his options. “You really want me to shave you.”

Momo’s lips part just enough to show his teeth. His eyes shine. His breathing quickens, and a flush spreads from his face to his neck, staining down to his chest. “What better way of proving my loyalty? I will be completely at your mercy.”

The fuck if that doesn’t sound like the best thing ever.

Eunchul gestures with the gun. “Kneel.”

Momo does so. The steps are wide enough for him to balance, but a faint wince cuts through his expression—his right knee is right on the edge, the grooved tile beneath him no doubt painful.

With a plash of water, Eunchul gets to his feet and closes the distance between them. He makes no attempt to hide his erection, and is gratified perhaps more than he should be by Momo’s obvious interest. It makes his cock twitch to be the object of such admiration, and he stands a little too close, foot nudging Momo’s knees.

Momo doesn’t move an inch, but his eyelashes flutter and his breath hitches, and then he darts out his tongue and slicks his lower lip.

Eunchul fancies he can feel Momo’s breaths against his thigh. Water crawls down his body. Heat drenches him. He has to force himself to take the open razor from Momo’s uplifted hand.

A moan whispers past Momo’s parted lips.

This has already gone far beyond Eunchul’s experiences. He’d learned long ago to keep his liaisons short and straightforward. Any hint of attachment is a weakness in the Black Snake Triad. Any suggestion of—Eunchul hesitates to call it deviation, because it seems so natural in this instance—any suggestion of _difference_ is met with derision, because that too can be a weakness.

It does not seem to be a weakness with Momo. For all that he’s unarmed and on his knees, he acts like he’s the one holding the balance of power.

Taking a couple of steps back, Eunchul thumbs the safety on his gun and turns, sending it skittering away across the tiled floor. Armed now only with the straight razor, he tests its weight, moving it in a glittering arc before he points it at Momo.

“Hands behind your back,” he says, and steam infiltrates his words, wrapping them in softness.

Momo obeys, muscles moving smooth and unhurried as he lowers his arms and clasps his hands behind him. He flashes a burning look that demands all and promises nothing, and then he drops his head, but not low enough that Eunchul can’t see the smirk playing over that wanton mouth.

Irritated, anticipation squirming low in his stomach and jerking his cock into greater stiffness, Eunchul resumes his position on the submerged steps near the pool wall. He beckons with the razor. “Come here, Momo.”

A flush spreads over Momo’s face, burning the tips of his ears. Slowly, with care, he shuffles through the resistance of the water. It’s really quite impressive, watching the flex of his abs, the twist and catch of his torso, as he struggles to remain upright. His sense of balance is as strong as his sense of self.

Eunchul envies him that, in some dim and distant part of his mind. The rest is taken up with baser thoughts, with the eagerness to touch and stroke and caress, even if only by proxy. 

Momo doesn’t ask how they’ll manage this. He merely looks, judges, and makes the decision himself. Taking a breath, he slides off the step. He turns his head as water splashes up. Ripples spread, hit the wall and run in counter-current. Regaining his balance, Momo inches closer, now on a step lower than the one where Eunchul sits.

Well, that’s convenient.

Chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm, Momo straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He meets Eunchul’s gaze, and what Eunchul sees there makes him _ache._

Prompted into movement lest he succumb to the invitation in Momo’s eyes, Eunchul scoops a handful of water and trickles it over Momo’s face. Those big dark eyes widen, and Momo murmurs something in a dialect Eunchul doesn’t recognise—though he understands the shape of Korean well enough to know that Momo is like him. 

From the North. 

He files away this knowledge for later and focuses on scooping up more water. He lets it run over the lower part of Momo’s face, working from left to right—the curve of his jaw by his ear, his chin, all around his slow-gasping, open mouth, beneath his nose, high up on his cheeks. 

Momo’s hair isn’t as dark as he’d thought. It’s dark brown on black, layered through with the occasional streak of old gold, the colour fading as it grows out. It curls, falling in loose waves as it sweeps down from his crown, tighter behind his ears and at his nape. Eunchul resists the urge to brush his fingers through it. 

Silence shimmers around them, wavering like the surface of the pool. Sweat covers Momo’s face, darkening his lashes, gleaming from high cheekbones, gathering either side of his nose where his features form dips and hollows. Eunchul watches as Momo folds his lips into a line. He wonders how Momo’s sweat tastes. 

Shaking himself from fascinated contemplation, he swirls the razor in the water beside them. “No soap,” he says, thinking it best to state the obvious. “No cream. Are you sure about this?” 

“I’m sure.” An intense look in Momo’s eyes, one that fades into dreaminess. He leans forward, shifting on his knees. “Do it.” 

Eunchul pauses, the razor poised, his other hand lifted as if to frame Momo’s face. The hesitation of an artist before a canvas, calling forth perfection. Fortunately he’ll only be required to gild the lily; Momo has just a faint blueing of stubble on his top lip and along his jaw. Such a light growth is unlikely to prove too difficult to remove, even using this basic method. 

He puts his fingers to Momo’s chin and rests them there lightly. With gentle pressure he corrects the angle of Momo’s head, tilts him first one way and then the other. Stubble prickles his fingertips. Then he begins, setting the razor to Momo’s skin at an angle and bringing it down in a long, smooth glide. 

Wet razor. Wet skin. The scrape of the blade slicing away the stubble. Eunchul’s concentration shrinks down to this, to a world of steam and water and flesh and light. 

He studies Momo as he works. Not the totality of his face, as he’d done before, but individual features. His nose, too long, tip-tilted at the end. His chin, with its determined jut. His lips, as the blade traces around their edge. Full lips, a mouth a little too wide. Supple lips, not chapped or bitten; soft, smooth lips. Eunchul imagines kissing him, tasting him; imagines those lips wrapped around his cock. 

Eunchul shifts position to get closer. He turns Momo’s head, holds the skin taut as he wets the razor again and shaves another clean stripe. His hands are steady. The awareness of danger lies just beneath the surface, and with it their desire. Momo’s breathing is quick but steady, the pink flush deepening. Arousal or the heat of the water, it doesn’t really matter. Want churns inside Eunchul, as insistent as a headache. 

At Eunchul’s silent command, Momo tips his head back and presents his throat. Vulnerable, pale, the tendons standing out as he fights to hold himself still. His shoulders tremble. His throat works, clicks on a dry swallow. His eyes close, sooty black lashes damp with sweat. He offers himself, putting his trust entirely at Eunchul’s whim. 

The razor gleams. Eunchul dips it in the pool and gently, gently, scrapes it over the underside of Momo’s chin. His hands are granite. He knows nothing else but the column of Momo’s neck. The lines creased across it, the clinging tendrils of hair wisping around from his nape. The bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows again. The thrumming beat of his pulse. 

The blade dips again. “Come here,” Eunchul says, and his voice sounds rough, gravelly. “Sit between my legs, with your back to me. It’ll be easier to finish your jaw that way.” 

Momo lets out a small sound as he releases the clasp of his hands. He rolls his shoulders, then turns on the step. A wave ripples out at the movement, the water choppy, then he snuggles into Eunchul’s arms. 

All the cold professionalism vanishes. Eunchul hadn’t allowed himself to notice this before, but now his embrace is full of Momo, it overwhelms him. Momo’s hair is hot and damp against his lips. It smells of apple-scented shampoo. He can smell Momo’s skin, warm and slippery with sweat and water. 

He widens his thighs, allows Momo even closer. His cock presses against Momo’s back. He moves his free arm around, his hand sliding over Momo’s chest. He brushes over a nipple, tight and spiky. His breath catches, lust making him light-headed. Eunchul bites his tongue and angles Momo’s head to one side. A few more strokes and it’ll be done. 

He shaves along Momo’s jaw, right then left. His work complete, Eunchul drags the razor through the water, cleaning it, then snaps it closed and tosses it onto the poolside. He sinks back into the pool, looping his arms around Momo. 

They remain that way, holding one another. It’s the closest he’s been to another human being in years, the intimacy of shaving far greater than sex. 

Momo tips his head back. His skin is rubbed pink, his eyes slumberous with fulfilment. He kisses Eunchul’s jaw. “Thank you.” 

What does one say to that? Eunchul settles for, “You’re welcome.” 

With a sigh, Momo slides free of his embrace and stands up. Water sloshes, rains down his body, a skin glistening over his real skin, diamond droplets caught in his pubic hair. His cock juts out, thick and red and hugely aroused. He ignores it. 

Eunchul wishes he could, too. 

“We should go,” Momo says, as cool and self-possessed as if the last half-hour hadn’t happened. “There’s a lot to do before we meet Mr Asada.” 

__

* * *

The room has the same bland decor as every other mid-range hotel Eunchul has ever visited. He sits on the end of the bed and watches as Momo dumps his shoulder-bag, flips his baseball cap onto the dresser, and opens one of the doors of the built-in wardrobe. Plastic wrap rustles as a charcoal-grey suit is brought out and laid on the bed beside him.

“For you,” Momo says, casting an eye over Eunchul’s outfit of black jeans, white t-shirt, and leather jacket. “Mr Asada prefers formality.”

Eunchul nods and gets to his feet. He strips down to his underwear, conscious of Momo studying him, then tears open the flimsy plastic protecting the suit. It has that newly dry-cleaned smell that just about masks the room’s underlying stink of smoke and desperation.

“The car will arrive at nine,” Momo tells him, clattering several coat hangers as he reaches deeper into the wardrobe. “Mr Asada expects you to be early, but we’ll arrive exactly on time. The compound isn’t large—it’s a secondary residence, but one he’s proud of, so if you want to be polite you might remark on his calligraphy collection...”

Eunchul wrinkles his nose. His father admires calligraphy, too, but he himself has never had time for it. A gentleman’s pursuit, and he is no gentleman. He lacks the patience for such arts.

“He keeps two bodyguards permanently on-site. You won’t see them, but believe me, they’ll be there.” Momo retrieves another garment bag and lays it on the bed. “Tonight he’ll be accompanied by two of his lieutenants, and if he’s feeling sociable, a couple of lady-friends.”

He unzips the bag to reveal a red dress. Feathers fluff around the top of the bodice. The hem is of scalloped lace.

In the middle of doing up his shirt, Eunchul pauses and stares.

“The meeting should take no more than ninety minutes. Mr Asada prides himself on being succinct.” Momo takes two boxes from the wardrobe, along with a clutch, and places them next to the dress. Only then does he seem to notice Eunchul’s bemusement; as if bestowing a favour, he says, “Mr Asada only knows me as a woman.”

Eunchul doubts the veracity of this statement, but doesn’t dare voice this thought aloud. Japan has long been a country built on illusion; who is he to question whether fantasy has replaced belief?

Thank fuck his job is straightforward, his task something solid and real, even if he has to rely on a chimera to help him.

Momo hangs the dress on the door of the en-suite, then takes the clutch and the smaller box with him into the bathroom. He undresses, kicking his sneakers to one side, taking off his skinny jeans, grey hoodie and grey t-shirt, and then he tucks his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear and darts a sidelong glance into the room.

Eunchul can’t look away. Even though he’s seen Momo naked, seen him naked and aroused and vulnerable and powerful, this is something different. Momo isn’t erasing himself, the way he’d done before he stepped through into the bath house. Instead he’s recreating a part of himself, just as he’d done when they left the pool and rejoined the outside world. Then Momo had become a student, slouchy, careless, loose-limbed as he walked, taking up space on the pavement and hurrying as if he had classes to attend, papers to write.

Now he’s transforming again.

He takes off his underwear and replaces masculine boxer-briefs with feminine panties, a snug-fitting, black cotton triangle at the front and a lacy back with a little red ribbon in the centre. Momo turns on the light and examines his reflection in the mirror above the sink, tracing his fingers over his face. His free hand slides beneath the panties to adjust his cock, tucking it down.

Eunchul can’t imagine that’s going to work. He returns to his own outfit, putting on the trousers, buttoning and zipping; he knots the navy blue tie and shrugs into the double-breasted suit jacket, swinging his arms and flexing from side to side to test his range of movement. Where should he put his gun? Little chance Mr Asada will let him keep it, especially as this is ostensibly a friendly meeting with no need for any weapons other than the gentle sparring of words.

May as well make it obvious. Eunchul tucks the gun into the waistband of his trousers and lets the jacket drop back into place, then he resumes his seat at the foot of the bed and continues watching Momo’s metamorphosis.

The dress is slipped from its hanger. Momo steps into it, shimmying the garment up over his long, smooth legs to settle it around his narrow hips. Even just that small movement seems imbued with a care and competence he hadn’t shown before. A man would have less patience, but a woman knows how to move her body to slide into a tight-fitting, layered dress.

It’s like when he goes to work, Eunchul thinks. Whenever he puts on his SSAT uniform, he considers himself transformed. The bad guy becoming the good guy. As if the uniform possesses some special quality that turns base metal into gold. On the heels of this thought comes another. It bothers him that it’s getting harder to think in absolutes, in binary terms: black and white, north and south, good and evil. 

He’s not a bad man, but sometimes he does bad things.

_For the greater good_ , his father tells him, but Eunchul isn’t so sure. More and more these days, he’s running into conflicts of loyalty. Conflicts of identity. And through them all, he’s starting to perceive shades of grey. 

Maybe that explains this attraction to Momo. There he is right there, the embodiment of duality, a walking contradiction. A man who’s a woman, a woman who’s a man. A student who’s a teacher, a teacher who’s a student. In Japan, everything is possible.

He watches as Momo sprays on perfume, the scent sullen and dangerous. He watches as Momo eases the bodice of the dress up over his chest. No need for a padded bra; there’s the suggestion of a bust built into the gown. A scattering of sequins distracts the eye; lace mesh woven with scarlet feathers provides further visual stimulation. The middle part of the dress is plain, and the skirt is another artful confection of feathers, sequins and lace.

Momo takes a handful of cosmetics from the clutch and lines them up on the shelf. He powders his face, lines his eyes with kohl, tames his brows and brushes his lashes with clear mascara, then he leans forward, inspecting his reflection.

“You’re North Korean,” Eunchul says.

There’s no reaction, just a simple response: “Yes.”

“So am I.”

Momo opens the lipstick and applies it with a practised gesture. “You’re not. You only think you are.”

“What do you mean?” Ready to take insult, Eunchul allows his anger to show. He’s given up his life for his country. Given up the chance of a normal existence to chase ghosts and spread poison, to undermine the corruption of the south for the greater good.

The glossy red lips are mocking. “What do you know of the north?” Momo’s voice shifts into a taunt. “Where are you from? Tell me that. Tell me of the north.”

Eunchul shakes his head, searching for an adequate answer. “I don’t know. I remember—” He bites back the memory of the rusty old fishing boat, drifting rudderless upon an ocean that seemed without end. The smell of the bilges backing up, the stench of spilled diesel and the sunburned flesh of his fellow refugees. The horror of hunger. Of a sun brilliant and brutal overhead, the black shapes of gulls circling. The relief of seeing the South Korean coastguard patrol boat giving way to confusion as their rescuers made it clear they were an unwanted burden, a jurisdictional problem, a tiresome flutter of red tape to be shunted up the line to the next government bureau.

Momo cuts across him, seemingly not interested in what he remembers. “I’m from Kaesong. I came here four years ago. They prepared me for it. Total immersion in all things Japanese. And yet I still think of home. Every day, I think of it. I tell myself this is the way of the exile, and then I tell myself this isn’t forever. I’m doing a job. My duty to our supreme leader.”

“Kim Jong-Un.” Though Eunchul tries to make it a statement, a hint of a question inhabits his words.

Momo’s nostrils flare. “My leader. Not yours.”

“I work for Choi Huigon.”

“You’re his son.” As if dismissing the comment, Momo swings his right foot up onto the side of the bath and wraps a soft black leather holster-strap high around his leg. Velcro rips and sticks. Momo tests the strap, then pushes something into the sheath. A derringer, a knife, Eunchul doesn’t care.

“Adopted son,” he corrects.

He can’t remember his real parents. They’d been swept away like the waves, a memory lost forever, burned out on the deck of the fishing boat. The boat had no name, no number, and no registration papers. Neither had he. Choi Huigon had taken him and remade him from cold, wet, northern clay. Fired him in the heat of the south and glazed him with promises of education, a career, something to believe in.

“Choi Huigon does not work for our leader.” Momo stands straight and smoothes down his skirt. “He works for himself.”

“That’s not true.” It can’t be true. Why else would he work so hard to raise his adopted sons to the best positions they were capable of? Sons he’d loved like they were his own flesh and blood—because they were; they were from the same barren northern soil, and that counted for more than any other bond. Sons he’d encouraged into positions of authority, of public office. The military. The government. The medical establishment. The media. All ready and waiting for the signal to bring down the south.

Eunchul shakes his head and says it again. “It’s not true.”

“You think you’re a sleeper agent for a greater power.” Momo is kind now, as if speaking to a child. Reaching into the box, he lifts out a wig of long, silken black hair curled at the ends. He settles it on his head, adjusting, primping. “You’re a pawn, Eunchul. A pawn placed by a player who’s mediocre at best and self-absorbed at worst.” 

Coming out of the en-suite he turns, presenting his back. The red dress gapes open, the metal teeth of the zipper glinting in the light. “Do me up.”

Reeling, Eunchul is glad to do this one thing. It’s concrete, real; it requires no thought from him, just the need for action. He gets up and steps close, one hand on Momo’s hip to keep the gown in place as he takes hold of the zip. Pale skin below his gaze, the shift of muscles beneath. Sequins and feathers and lace to hide it all.

He numbers Momo’s vertebrae as he draws up the zip. When it reaches the top, he tucks it down and draws Momo even closer. His arm slides around Momo’s waist, his hand splaying across the taut abdomen. He holds him, breathing in his perfume. Heavy, cloying, like a black cloud. It doesn’t suit Momo, but it speaks perfectly of the woman he’s become.

Fabric whispers as Momo turns in his embrace. A stranger looks at him, striking features framed by a sophisticated hairstyle, beautiful eyes accentuated with make-up, mouth sinful with scarlet paint. Feathers flirt around his throat, blurring the evidence of his gender.

They’re close enough to kiss, but all Eunchul feels is despair.

Momo touches his face, concern in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Why are you here?” Eunchul asks, then cuts through the glib answer to say, “The truth, please. You owe me that much.”

“I owe you nothing.” Momo kisses him. The waxy taste of lipstick, the slick glide of his tongue. An amalgam of hot and cold. Then Momo pulls back, pressing his lips together for a moment. “But perhaps I will tell you. Later.”

Eunchul is silent as Momo walks away, the bounce of feathers and glitter-flash of sequins concealing much. From the larger box he takes a pair of knee-length boots with vicious heels and red soles. He perches on the side of the bed and wriggles his feet into the boots. Leaving the zips undone, he stands and peeps at Eunchul over his shoulder, around a waterfall of hair. “Help me?”

Unable to resist, Eunchul goes to him and kneels. Momo’s hand rests on his shoulder. The boots gape at the ankles, flop limply at the sides like broken wings. It’s his job to mend them. Drawing in a breath, inhaling the smell of new boots and perfume, bare skin and feathers, he takes the opaque black zipper of the right boot between finger and thumb and drags it up, slowly, slowly.

The boot starts to take shape. The nap is velvety against his knuckles. He can see where Momo’s fingers have stroked it before. Eunchul moves closer, and Momo leans into him. Sexy boots, long legs, a flirtation of red lace over smooth skin.

The zip purrs higher, the boots moulding to ankle, to calf, following the contours of flesh and bone. Where it stops, Eunchul continues, tracing his hand up Momo’s thigh, pushing up the hem of the skirt. Now there’s the scent of him, the bittersweet musk of arousal above the stink of perfume. Eunchul kisses his inner thigh, leaves a mark just above the holster-strap—the imprint of the lipstick he’d kissed from Momo’s mouth. 

“I like a man who teases.” Momo’s voice has gone soft and breathy.

Recalled to duty, Eunchul zips up the other boot and stands. Need kicks at his stomach. He doesn’t know what he wants most, answers or Momo. Maybe they’re one and the same.

He takes Momo’s hand and clasps it in his own. “Let’s go to work.”

* * *

The explosion flowers behind them as they flee. The night cracks open, cold air lit by a backdraft of heat that seems to push them along. They leave chaos and destruction in their wake, a plume of smoke rising, flames leaping and devouring.

Eunchul leans forward, arms braced, muscles tense, as if he can urge their stolen motorbike to greater speed. Momo clings to him, arms around his waist wrapped like a vine. His sultry perfume blocks out the stench of the explosion.

Momo is laughing.

An hour ago, the Asada compound was intact but the entente between the Japanese and Korean underworld was being stretched to its fragile limits. Eunchul had admired Mr Asada’s collection of calligraphy scrolls using the simplest words in his vocabulary. He kept his language deliberately clumsy, then cast a helpless look at Momo, who took over the business of translating. Serene and beautiful in her red dress, she knelt on the tatami beside Eunchul, her behaviour soft, sweet and demure, much like the geisha of Sunwoo’s imaginings.

When Mr Asada introduced the two men who accompanied him, Momo stiffened slightly but her smile didn’t slip. She bent her head to Eunchul, her hair brushing his cheek, and murmured in Korean, “Don’t react, but the man on the left is a senior representative of the Aizukotetsu-kai.”

It was hard for Eunchul to keep his composure. The Aizukotetsu-kai were the largest yakuza clan in the region. Part of the reason the smaller Aizuyajiri-kai had agreed to trade with the Black Snake Triad was because they wanted to expand their power-base. But now it seemed that a new deal had been struck, one that cut out the upstart Koreans with their dubious links to an unstable dictator. An alliance that ensured control remained with the Japanese.

From such inauspicious beginnings, the meeting could only get worse. Mr Asada made an attempt to cloak his double-cross in social pleasantries, but his lieutenant was clearly unhappy.

The representative of the Aizukotetsu-kai sat back, smugly complacent and not bothering to hide his amusement at the situation in which they all found themselves. “You _are_ Choi Huigon’s son, are you not?” he asked Eunchul on several occasions, and on receiving an affirmative—but not the information that Eunchul was an adopted son rather than by blood—the representative’s serpentine smile grew wider.

Eunchul suspected he’d been invited here for more than studied insults and the humiliation of losing the deal. The Aizukotetsu-kai would use his death as an example. A warning to other organisations who looked to further their influence in a market where they didn’t belong.

Momo excused herself to use the bathroom and left, hips swaying, heels clicking. The four men watched her go. Eunchul knew he wasn’t pretending when he let his fascination show. His anger was just as real when he heard the representative say she was an ugly bitch, too tall and awkward for a woman.

“Although,” the representative continued, leering, “she has a nice arse. It’d be fun to plug it if only she stayed facedown.”

Eunchul sat expressionless, feigning ignorance until she returned. She’d reapplied her lipstick and spritzed herself with more perfume. The representative and Mr Asada’s lieutenant both winced as she passed, the smell thick and cloying in her wake.

She knelt beside Eunchul again, cuddling up close. Her smile was bright when she looked at him. She had a fleck of lipstick on her teeth. Eunchul touched his thumb to it, wiping it clean, and she blushed, dipped her head. He put his hand on her thigh, aware of hard muscle beneath the ruffled feathers and shiny sequins and the tease of lace.

“Darling.” Her lashes fluttered. She picked up the tiny cup of sake and held it to his lips, leaning closer as if she could drink with him. “In thirty seconds,” she breathed in Korean, “get ready to leave.”

He trusted Momo completely. He played along, drinking from the cup, smiling and touching her hair like a besotted fool. The tension that had built in him during her absence melted away. His mind was clear; he knew what he had to do.

Eunchul turned to the representative, inviting him to a toast. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Momo slip a hand into her purse. Her leg flexed beneath his touch; she shifted position. Smiled at him. _Trust me. Believe in me_.

Staring at her, he lost count.

It didn’t matter. He saw it in her eyes, the moment to leave. Saw it and reacted to it, powering to his feet, kicking across the tatami, lashing out with hands and fists and then running, running while the world blew apart around them.

Momo had laughed when he’d broken the neck of one of the bodyguards. He’s still laughing now, curled against Eunchul’s back, but the laughter is hiccupped, more like sobs; something felt rather than heard.

He guides the bike onto a disused road, travels through a wasteland, then kills the engine and glides to a halt beneath the shelter of a corrugated iron shed. Getting off the bike, Momo stumbles. Eunchul is there to catch him.

“Thank you.” Momo’s eyes are wide in the slivered light of the moon. He pulls off the wig and tosses it towards the back of the shed, then runs his hands through his real hair, fluffing it out, teasing life back into it.

Eunchul goes to the door and looks out. No sign of pursuit. The shock of the explosion had seen to that. He half turns to ask Momo about the bomb, then remembers the thigh-holster. It hadn’t been a gun in there, nor a knife, but explosives, and the detonator was in the purse.

The mystery of Momo deepens, but now Eunchul doesn’t want to understand it; he wants to share in it.

But before he can allow himself that luxury, he should inform his father of what happened tonight. The yakuza clans will either want revenge or want to strike a deal, depending on who survived the blast. Either way Choi Huigon needs to know. A mediocre chess player needs all the help he can get.

Eunchul takes his phone from his jacket and texts a pre-arranged sequence of numbers. He doubts the news will come as a surprise. That’s why he’d been sent here, after all. Just in case.

Turns out he’s not the loyal little soldier he’d always thought he was. Eunchul breathes in a long, cold lungful of night air and is glad Momo didn’t think he was expendable, either.

Momo comes to stand beside him. “I have an apartment nearby.”

They make their way through a broken chain link fence and along the path of the river. Nondescript buildings loom, industrial units and fourth-rate urban developments. The stink of rotting vegetation and mud oozes through the chill. Their breaths emerge like ghosts. Momo’s boots tap and scrape across shattered concrete, and then he hisses, stumbles, heel caught in a crack.

Eunchul catches him, swings Momo up into his arms. “You should’ve ditched those boots as soon as we were clear of the compound.”

Arms linked around his neck, wholly comfortable with this new position, Momo laughs up at him. “But darling, they’re Louboutins.”

The apartment is accessed via an external staircase. It would be prudent to put Momo down, but Eunchul has something to prove, if only to himself. He carries him up the stairs. Momo giggles when they set foot on the first step, but by the fifth he’s silent, and by the time they reach the top his hold around Eunchul’s shoulders is tight, possessive. Demanding.

Eunchul sets him down. Momo slides against his body then turns, the high, taut globes of his arse pressed into Eunchul’s groin. He’s half hard already, and gets harder when Momo wiggles against him in a slow, teasing promise.

The door opens. Momo steps inside. Rather than turning on the light, he crosses the room, the click of his heels echoing from the walls. A rattle as the blinds are lifted; a creak as the windows are pushed open.

The illusion of moonlight spills in. It’s enough to show bare wooden floorboards stripped and scarred, a cluster of second-hand furniture, a small gas-fuelled stove, store-cupboard staples and bottled water. In the corner beneath another window, the bed, neatly made, light fractured across it in long, jagged shapes.

Silence settles around them. No air con unit puttering away, no hum of electricity. Just the sound of the river rolling outside, the sound of the night, of their breathing. Of their hearts beating.

Momo pivots on one heel and comes towards him. Halfway across the room he stops, poised in a shallow pool of moonlight. His face is in shadow, but his eyes glitter. He lifts an arm and unlatches the zip at the back of the red dress. He rolls his shoulders, shrugging off the events of the past hour or so, and the zipper creeps lower. The collar of the dress loosens, then the bodice, weighted with sequins, falls forward and away.

He works his arms free. A couple of feathers escape their mesh prison and float, soft and dark, to brush over the floor. The fabric clings around his waist, over his abs. The skirt has ridden up. Momo shimmies, his thumbs tucked beneath the top of the dress as he slides it down, down over his narrow hips, down over muscled thighs, down over the velvety Louboutins. 

The dress drops to the floor. With a dainty gesture, Momo steps free of it and kicks it aside, then stands there, naked but for his boots and panties. His erection strains the front of the knickers, his cock an eager shape thrusting against soft cotton. 

Eunchul can’t resist. He goes closer, goes to his knees, and opens his mouth over Momo’s dick. The stink of the perfume, the scent of aroused man. He gets a mouthful of pretty printed cotton and hard shaft. Keeping his hands by his sides, he licks at Momo’s cock, wetting the fabric until it clings to every inch. Then he nuzzles at Momo’s balls, sucking them down, teasing them out through the legs of the panties. The elastic cuts across, increasing the pressure.

Momo tips back his chin and gasps, the noise harsh in the night-time quiet. His hands go to Eunchul’s head, twine in his hair. He strokes Eunchul, fingernails lightly scratching his scalp, fingertips twisting strands of hair and tugging just hard enough to raise involuntary tears.

Eunchul puts his hands on Momo’s boots. He caresses the tops, brushing against Momo’s bare knees, and feels him flinch, rock back, sway forward. He wraps both arms around Momo’s thighs and eats at his cock through the sodden panties. Arousal beats inside him, heat burning from him. He wants Momo. Wants to be inside him, around him, all over him. 

“Eunchul.” Momo’s voice, dazed and drenched. His fingers slide down Eunchul’s face, and Eunchul catches at them, sucks them into his mouth one at a time. He alternates, cock, finger, cock, finger, and Momo draws in a breath that exhales in a shuddering mess.

Sweat dews the inside of Momo’s thighs. Muscles shift with tension. Saliva glistens. Eunchul can smell him, heat and musk. He tastes him, the thin bitterness of pre-come through the soaked panties, the taste of his skin. He sucks Momo’s fingers, bites the pads, tongues the nails, takes them to the second knuckle and suckles, lavishly, moaning as he does it.

“Eunchul,” Momo says again, and there’s urgency in his tone. “Now.”

He surges to his feet and lifts Momo into his arms. This time Momo wraps his legs around Eunchul’s waist. They kiss, fuse their mouths together. Devour one another, hot and wet and needy. Eunchul is aware of the cock pressed hard against his stomach, aware of how Momo’s arse fills his hands as he carries him to bed.

Momo drags his mouth from Eunchul’s lips, leaving a slick trail across his face. He nips at Eunchul’s earlobe, pants in his ear, sucks on the tender skin of his neck. He bites, laughing, triumphant, and tears at Eunchul’s tie. The knot yanks then comes free, the silk unravelling. It’s discarded, forgotten, as Eunchul tips them both onto the bed.

He fights out of his jacket. Momo pulls at his shirtfront, gets the top few buttons undone then heaves at the fabric. It strains but doesn’t pop open, and precious seconds are lost until Eunchul pulls the damn thing over his head and hurls it to the floor.

His cock is so stiff it hurts. Anticipation churns, his lust so demanding his head spins with it. His gaze blazes over Momo, spread out almost naked and ready. “You want to keep the boots on?”

Momo’s smile is wicked. “Do you want me to?”

“No.” Eunchul forces himself to slow down, to put one knee on the bed and reach for Momo’s left boot. “I want you naked. Absolutely and completely naked.”

The admission silences Momo. He lays still, the moonlight broken over him, and watches as Eunchul unzips the boots and slides them off. Then his panties, wet and clinging; off they come to land on the floor.

Eunchul kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks; unbuttons his trousers and strips them off with his underwear. They’ll both be naked. Vulnerable. Trusting. He’s never been like this with a lover before. Never wanted it this much. Perhaps because they both know this is a one-off, they can both let go.

“My bag,” Momo says. “Lube and condoms.”

Even the brief moment away from the bed feels too long. Eunchul brings the purse to him, then spills the contents across the quilt. Lipstick, perfume, a comb, hair pins; bubble packs of lube, a strip of condoms. Nothing to suggest it held anything more than the detritus of a woman’s evening out.

He climbs onto the bed between Momo’s splayed thighs and sits back on his heels. There’s no need for further stimulation—the sight before him is alluring enough. A beautiful man, his features made up like a woman. A pale, strong, naked body, dick curved back almost to touch his navel, balls still glistening wet from Eunchul’s attentions. Sweat stripes Momo’s throat, the centre of his chest, the insides of his thighs. He smells hot and ripe.

His hips lift and roll. The flush of arousal across his chest deepens as he squeezes out the lube, draws his knees back to his chest, and fingers his hole.

Eunchul watches, spellbound, as Momo pushes two fingers inside himself. Momo wriggles, eyes half-lidding as pleasure washes over him. His mouth opens; he pants softly. His nipples are hard peaks; his cock stiffens, drools pre-come over his belly.

Blood pounds through Eunchul’s head. He can’t look away. He wants to be the one thrusting inside Momo’s tight pink hole. His dick leaps and he takes it in hand, feeling the crinkle-smooth texture of the latex that sheathes it. Grabbing for one of the spare lube packs, he dribbles the liquid over his fist, releasing the grip of his fingers then tightening again, squishing the lube against his shaft, jerking hard until he’s slick and stiff enough to pound nails through concrete. 

Three fingers. Momo’s head rolls on the pillow. His hips work, rocking slowly in time to the thrust of his hand. His hole stretches; he needs something bigger, thicker, longer. He opens dazed eyes and looks at Eunchul, his fingers sliding free, his thighs falling even further apart.

Eunchul claims him. Fingers around the base of his cock, he guides the head to Momo’s entrance. Notches there, feeling the heat and slipperiness, feeling Momo’s tension and rapid breaths, the need leashed so loosely, and then he thrusts.

He slides inside, Momo tight and hungry around him, and Momo tips his head back, hair tumbling across the pillow, flushed throat open and vulnerable.

“Yes,” Momo gasps. “Oh, _yes_.”

Eunchul holds still, giving him a moment. Then he rocks his hips in a slow, stuttering slide and sinks deeper, bringing his body down in a graceful arch. He kisses Momo’s throat, tastes the sheen of sweat from the dip between his collarbones. Their bodies fuse together, heat joining them, sliding between them.

Their gazes lock. Momo smiles. “I like you inside me.”

Eunchul doesn’t think he’s capable of a reply. He makes a sound, something he hopes will be interpreted favourably, and hitches his hips a little. Momo is tight. So exquisitely, blissfully tight. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected any of this, and yet it seems so natural. So right.

Momo undulates beneath him, inner muscles fluttering a caress the length of Eunchul’s cock. Common sense and rationality fragments into thousands of glittering shards. All he wants is to fuck. To possess. To bring Momo to the same dizzying heights of pleasure, so they can find oblivion together.

He stirs his hips again, teasing, moving slowly. Momo’s body gives him up with reluctance, their skin separating on tiny slick sounds. Eunchul withdraws almost all the way, then circles his hips and plunges forward. Momo gasps, eyes wide, body arching as he accepts the penetration. He lifts a hand and grabs onto the headboard, anchoring himself there as Eunchul thrusts again. Stroke for stroke Momo matches him, hips churning, skin bruising. Eunchul drives into him, sparing nothing; Momo hooks his legs around his waist, his heels digging into the tight muscles of Eunchul’s glutes as he pumps deeper, harder.

Momo kisses him, gasps into his mouth. Their teeth clash. They suck at each other, nip and bite and moan and stumble over obscenities and endearments in Japanese and Korean. Sweat burns between them, lube squidging. Wetness on their bellies. The taste of salt on their lips. Eyes glittering, reading one another, their responses attuned.

Momo reaches his free hand between them. Knuckles drag over Eunchul’s abs, and he lifts himself up on braced arms so he can look down. Momo is jerking his cock, his hips canted up in a desperate rhythm. Eunchul can see his dick plundering Momo’s arse, slick-sliding into that tight little hole. Momo’s balls bounce with each thrust, and the sight—filthy, lewd, incredible—makes Eunchul’s own balls lift and tighten.

The body beneath him arches higher, strung taut with impending climax. Momo shakes, head snapping to one side and pushing into the pillow. A groan tears from his throat. Hips jerk up once, twice, the pressure around Eunchul’s cock like a silken fist milking him, and Momo lets go, his seed jetting up over his belly and chest.

Orgasm climbs Eunchul’s spine, lashing around and around. He plunges in, thrusts deep, deeper. Momo is tight around him, still shaking, still riding out his own release. Eyes wide, Momo bites out, “Now. For me. Give me everything.”

He has never disobeyed a direct command. Eunchul unloads inside Momo and gives himself over to the whip-crack of pleasure.

*

“The difference between us,” Momo says into the silent darkness, “is that you can choose. You have the luxury of choice, and I do not.”

Eunchul curls a finger around a strand of Momo’s sweat-damp hair, admires the play of dying moonlight over his skin. “What use is choice to a slave?”

Momo smiles, but his gaze is fierce. “Do not try to appeal to my sympathy.”

“No,” Eunchul says, kissing away that smile. “I know you have none.”


End file.
